The visitor
by TheRealRogue
Summary: Zorro helps those in need, but what happens when for once, he's the one in need of help? A little story about Diego and an OC named Lucía.
1. Chapter 1: Found

Chapter 1

Found

The most important thing you need to know about red berries (though not the only one) is: if they grow in small clusters, they're probably poisonous. But if they grow as single ones, keeping their distance from each other, they're most likely just fine to eat. Lucía knew this by heart, same way we know it'll rain if it's cloudy, or it'll be hot as hell (like that day) if the sky is this clear and bright.

That's why she didn't even have a look at those bushes over there, besides the rocks, but went straight to the ones that bordered the creek: black and blue berries, usually the best, so she started picking them up and collecting them in a basket.

Then there was a noise of some sort, like a rumor of strides in between the leaves.

No one around, so she carried on with her task. Not like she could get her mind off of it: there was somebody, something else out there, very close.

When the basket was half full, she waited, piercing the afternoon air with her hearing. Some birds chirping to the left, the _arroyo_ flowing on the other side. And when the sound was upon her, way too present and evident, she had to greet its source:

"_Hola_! What are you doing here all by yourself?"

The magnificent horse approached as if it knew her, shaking its head and neighing, its short, black fur shining like the whole animal was carved onto some precious stone.

"You're so beautiful." She petted it on the neck, grazed the silky mane. The saddle wasn't like those of the _vaqueros_; it was a rich one. "Are you lost?"

The response was a loud whine, a painful one. Then it trotted away, only to stop on its tracks and stare at her. It seemed… no, it _was_ nervous.

She didn't hesitate. Everyone knows what a horse with no horseman usually means.

The way got dustier and the landscape more desolate, as they advanced more and more into areas less walked through.

"You will have to slow it down, honey, if you really want me to go with you." She was almost running at this point. And it wasn't her imagination: the steed _did_ slow down its pace, turning to look at her every now and then, tenaciously guiding her through the twists and turns of these arid corners of the world.

The top of her head started to feel like a hot iron, so she threw her shawl over, tied it below her jaw and continued the trudge. When they made it to the side of a low hill, her companion started to get agitated again.

"What is it…?" she asked in a low voice, not so much to the horse but to herself, foreseeing the answer, trying to avoid the undergrowth and thick roots at each step. The wall of stone was at arm's length now and-

"_Santo Dios_!"

Anyone's first instinct at this sight would be to run for help, and it was also Lucía's, but this other thing pulled her in the opposite direction. This man was lying on the ground, with blood smeared all over his face and forehead and, she took a closer look, yes, the head too, there was also a knife impaling one of his arms. And she couldn't call anyone because, damned be her luck, it was _El Zorro_.

It had to be him, how many men run around with a mask on and wearing only black? She'd seen him a couple times from the distance, and of course she wouldn't be able to recognize his features or the ones that were visible at least, but there was no doubt it was him, also the horse… if she went for help, they'd patch him up only to hang him the following day, and some help that would be.

Was he even breathing?

She knelt by his side. Close… closer… yes, there was a weak stream of warm air escaping his nostrils.

"Zorro? Can you hear me?" Silence. "Stay alive at least, then."

That's when she noticed something she hadn't seen before: he was sweating. A lot, his temples and forehead were dripping. She dared to check with the back of her hand: he was burning up.

And maybe it was the touch of her skin what woke him up. Sort of.

He jolted all of a sudden, sat up a bit and looked at her:

"Your eyes… are green" he slurred, then his eyelids gave up again.

"Nononono, please! Please Zorro, wake up, you have to help me out."

There was only a mumble and more budging.

"Horse!" she called, then felt entirely stupid when remembering: everyone in town knew the name of Zorro's horse: "Tornado! Please!"

This had to be the smartest and most faithful animal in existence because in a jiffy, it approached its master and, wonder of wonders, slowly sat down on the ground, folding its elegant legs first, then completely letting itself fall.

Lucía wasted no time. She took off her shawl and wrapped it around his head where the wound seemed to be; there would be time to take a closer look later on.

"My sword…" she heard him mutter, but paid no mind. Gathering all of the strength she had and the one she didn't, she threw his good arm over her neck, then tried to lift him up, to pull him at least, to drag him to the vehicle.

"_Caray_, you weigh a ton!"

After some good ten minutes of struggle, she had managed to place him on the horse like a bundle, his long legs hanging over one side and his good arm, over the other.

It was now she who was sweating from all of the effort, but it was all rewarded when Tornado stood up, nice and slow, carrying his wounded friend.

She made sure he was well balanced there, didn't even want to imagine him sliding down and rolling to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Then, rein in one hand, the other one holding him in place just in case, she started going.

The berries were left behind, pouring out of the basket and scattered all over the ground.

(…)

Note: hi guys! This is a little idea I had as I was lying in bed trying to sleep and wondering what other Zorro idea I could have for a fanfiction. This just popped up. Now, I know it's not the most original idea in the world, but I sure am enjoying writing it, and that's what matters, right? Please forgive any inaccuracies with… well, with everything, especially berries classification and medical stuff; not sure if someone in this condition should be moved at all, but let's bear with it for the sake of the story. Also, English is not my native language, so I'm trying! This is based on Guy Williams's Zorro btw, from the 1957 Disney series. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2: Hurt

Chapter 2

Hurt

Lucía counted about fifty two things that could go wrong, among which stood out: one, the knife stuck in his arm; had she made the wound wider, deeper, worse, with all of the budging, plus the trotting of the horse? Two, they might stumble upon someone; it was unlikely because this wasn't a main road, it wasn't even a road at all, but how would she explain the unconscious man in black she was carrying around on an equally black horse? Three, fever meant infection, and she wasn't sure she had all of the roots and plants needed to treat such a thing at home. Four, maybe he wouldn't even make it home; maybe he'd die on the way and then, what would she do?

"Don't you die, Zorro. Don't die on me, please. Hang in there."

Tornado advanced steady and smooth, with no rush and certainly no pause, like he knew well that a sudden movement would only make matters worse. They were back around the berries area; she'd have to come back for them later.

Again, she heard him say something, but couldn't make out what it was.

"It's all right, don't you worry, you'll be just fine. I'm Lucía by the way, I live nearby. I'll get you home and you'll get to rest and…" There was blood in her shawl. She kept on pressing the fabric against his head, on the spot where she assumed the wound was, making him wince. It wasn't an easy operation, being on the move and all. "You'll get to rest and you'll be just like new, dear God, I hope I'm not finishing you off, no, forget I said that, you'll be fine, just a little more, home's pretty much around the corner."

She led Tornado to the entrance of the cabin where, smart boy, he sat down again. And now came another dilemma: should she try to wake him up, make him walk those few meters to the bed? Should she…?

"Don't move."

Well, he sure didn't, as she rushed into the house and came back a minute later dragging a bare, worn out mattress, that looked more like the discarded skin of some giant fruit.

"Now you'll have to cooperate with me, Zorro, can you do that?" There was no answer, but he was still breathing, so that was good enough for now. Some of the scenarios of doom had already been left behind, only to open the way to new ones.

A hand holding his head, the other one making efforts to pull and push him by the shoulder, by the good arm, damn cape getting in the way, until he finally rolled off the horse's back and landed on the mattress with a thump. She gently let go of his head and straightened his legs, so all of his tall persona could be on the improvised stretcher.

"We're almost there, _amigo_. Just a bit more."

It was now only a matter of grabbing the top edges and pull, pull in, into the cabin, as Tornado got back on its feet and saw them from outside, kept its big, equine eyes on his master and on the girl it'd entrusted to save him.

Inside, it smelled like spices and seeds, like flowers and wood. Lucía didn't notice, of course, used to it as she was, and Zorro was too deep asleep to notice anything at all. She went and closed the door to the house/living room/kitchen/bedroom, the only room of the house, that is. More light would be necessary, so she tore opened the rustic curtains.

And turned to look at him.

That old pang of fear hit her again.

The image of that little boy she couldn't save, despite applying the best concoctions and brewings her _abuela_ had taught her. After that, she'd sworn she'd never again pretend to know how to deal with the rough edges between life and death. That was almost a year ago.

"Why do you make me do this?" she exhaled, gathering stuff from here and there: the shelf, the trunk, that dusty old crate over there. "I don't know how to do this, Zorro, I'm not… good. My _abuela_ was but not me, I…" She plumped down by his side. His chest was going up and down with every faint breath.

"You just do that. Keep breathing, that´s your job."

First off, she untied the bloody shawl and could finally get a good look at it, carefully checking through his dark hair: the wound was about three centimeters long, and it was tore open like someone made a slash on a watermelon with a single stroke.

It wasn't pretty.

"Oh, honey… but no worries. I do remember what's good for this."

Her _abuela _used to call it _la pomada contra el diablo_ or _the ointment against the devil_, because according to her, it could cure even the meanest cuts, the ones perpetrated by the devil himself. So she picked up a large spoonful and plastered it there, adding up a stinking, greenish gooey to the mess of hair, grime and blood.

"It smells like the devil's toes, that's where the name comes from, if you ask me, but it'll help, I promise."

Now, there was that other thing.

The mask. There was blood on it. She could see his closed eyes and his eyelashes behind those sort of oval shaped triangles cut off in the black fabric.

"You wouldn't mind if I…? Maybe you would. But I can't just leave it there." Her _abuela_'s trusty scissors: the things they'd seen and done. "Well, we'll take care of that later."

She cut a slit in the sleeve of his shirt, cuff to neck.

The knife was still stuck in his arm, very close to the shoulder. The wound, plus the stuff around it, was a thing of colorful nightmares.

"Guess we found the infected one, didn't we? Jesus, how long were you there? Must have been a couple days at least." Her monologue was now mostly a way to distract herself from what she knew she had to do. "I saw my _abuela_ do it many times. Well, five or six times. Fine, maybe twice, but that qualifies me to do it myself, wouldn't you think so? And she'd always say it: _if it doesn't belong, rip it off_. The sooner the better. Snap! Just like that. All right."

With one shaky hand, she pinned his arm against the mattress. With the other one, she clenched the knife's handle. Tight.

Then, she let go.

"I can't do this."

The light that came in through the window got more orangey with every second. It'd soon get dark.

Being responsible for a life was too much, she didn't miss it at all. Her heart was pumping hard, blasting in her ears, every beat forcing her to stare at him, at the ugly wound, at his parted lips and his inert hands lying there, the hands that day to day fought for justice and helped so many, and now he was the helpless one.

So, back to it. This time, she wouldn't let go of the knife without having ripped it out first.

"You're a tough guy, aren't you? You're Zorro, for Chris sake and me, I wouldn't say I'm a tough girl but… we can do this together. On three. One…"

Her fingers clutched firmly, all of her strength focused in her hand.

"…two…"

She pinned his arm even harder.

_Snap! Just like that. _

"…three!"

He jolted but didn't make a sound. Next, started to breathe harder and half opened two brown, glassy eyes:

"Bernardo, bring me Tornado!"

"Lie down! Tornado is fine, I promise, please lie down."

He did, then tried to hang on to something, to her, with his bad arm but pain stroke again.

"You're hurt, just stay still."

He half sat up again, looked all around and nowhere at the same time, then finally fixated his stare on something. On her:

"Your eyes are green" and fell back right away, into obscurity again.

Lucía stayed there, still hanging on to the knife for dear life.

(…)

Note: hey guys, I wanna remind you that I know nothing about medicine and that who knows if ripping out a knife like it was explained here, would be a good idea. But hey, this is the 1820's and Lucía's abuela (gradma) was no licensed physician, so let's go with the flow. Also, I read that horses can sit down if they are trained to do so, and Tornado is a very smart cookie, so he knows how to do it. Thanks for reading and reviewing!


	3. Chapter 3: Asleep

Chapter 3

Asleep

These were similar, but not quite exactly the leaves she was searching for. And the sun, or now almost entire absence of it, didn't help much either, so she had to light up the lamp she brought along.

Better now. But still, it was a strange sensation. See: to the untrained eye, all of these bushes were pretty much the same, some greener than others, perhaps. Lucía's grandma had indeed trained her, but she'd spent a long time un-training herself, trying to forget it all, just focusing on the fruits and vegetables she could pick up and sell at the market. Now she was fishing pieces of knowledge out of a soup of scrambled memories inside her head. They were in there, somewhere… along with the image of her _abuela_, her long, white braids and bony hands, the way they rummaged through the branches and picked up a bunch of leaves that looked just like-

"This!"

She snatched a good amount and made a bundle of them in her skirt, then rushed back to the cabin.

He was right where she'd left him, with the blackish poultice on his arm wound that was a mix of the devil's ointment thing with a couple other roots, plus turmeric and garlic (really). There was something different, though.

She knelt by his side, still protecting the precious harvest with one hand; the other one, she placed it on his forehead to confirm what she already knew: the fever was still there, and worse than before. Not only was his head on fire, but he was shivering and shaking and mumbling stuff in his semiconscious sleep.

"I'm not saying the remedy on your arm is bad. Because it's not, it's pretty good." Mortar and pestle, strainer, leaves, everything was put to work: "But if you don't drink this as well, it won't do you any good."

The smell that whirled up brought back more memories of her _abuela_, which were quickly pushed away by the few scattered and agitated words she could decipher in his ramble: something about gunpowder, a carriage, California's fate and, if she heard well, an eagle or as he called it: _El Águila_.

"You have a lot of secrets, don't you?" a little more grinding and it'd be good to go: "But you're only mortal, like the rest of us. We can be gone at any day. But not today, honey." A cup, some hot water, Lucía's somber expression: "I hope."

She added a special syrup to the mixture and sniffed it off:

"Oh yes, I remember that smell of burnt leather. Very well, sir, time for your prescription, and I don't want to see you making faces."

Sitting down on the floor, by his side, she propped his head up a bit with one hand:

When the liquid first touched his lips, he grimaced and mostly spat it out.

"I told you, no faces! Come on…" She had to opt for extreme measures: "ZORRO!" she yelled. He parted his eyes just a tiny bit, not really seeing anything at all: "Drink this, NOW." That's what her _abuela _used to do when people got stubborn with a treatment: instead of being all nice and sweet, the answer was to treat them (whether they be children or elderly, rich or poor, common folk or Zorro) like a _Comandante_ would treat the lowest of lancers.

It had always worked, but not this time. This man was obstinate even in his delirious feverish state and wouldn't gulp down the brew; he was actually making a mess, good thing she'd prepared a lot.

"You're a difficult one, aren't you? Jesus!"

Another approach, then:

"But Zorro, listen to me, listen, listen." He was sweating more profusely than before; he had to drink it, and he had to drink it _now_: "Listen." She said in his ear, this time in a low voice: "I need your help. I need your help so bad. I'm in danger." Crazily enough, he seemed to calm down a little in his trembles, to be somehow paying attention from behind the blazing temperature that separated him from reality: "I'm in so much danger and only _you_ can help _me_. And the way to help me, to save my life, is to drink this. Will you?" He was still breathing hard, but Lucía recognized the signs of obliging. "Don't let me die, Zorro, please. Save me, drink this… there we go."

He drank until the last drop and didn't complain once.

Medicine wise, she'd done all she could for the moment. In about two hours they'd have to repeat some of the procedures. But now, there were other things to deal with.

How many people would want to do this? This man had earnt so many enemies, they'd all give away a fortune to be in her shoes right this instant. Even the townspeople would want to, just out of curiosity: who was Zorro? Several identities had been suggested over the three or four years since he first started showing up, but nothing conclusive. And of all people, it'd be her the one to…

She brought the lamp closer: still shuddering, but at least the talking had mostly stopped; only an occasional groan escaped his mouth.

"You do know I have to do it, right?"

That didn't make her feel any less of an intruder. Zorro, the infamous Zorro was… in her hands? Wasn't that weird. Wasn't this the weirdest day ever.

Close to the right cheekbone, the scissors started to cut the black fabric. One snip, two snips. It'd be off by the third one.

And snip.

She pulled the mask away.

And stared.

In an instant, everything fell into place, just like the pieces had been there for ages waiting to be put together one day.

She remembered seeing him at the market every now and then, and how he once paid for the groceries of an old lady who didn't have enough money.

She remembered he would frequently be seen with Sargent García and would go to the barracks for one reason or the other. Talk about keeping your enemies close.

She remembered he'd been accused of being el Zorro once, which caused the entire town to talk about it for days, but it was all soon dismissed.

She remembered he had arrived to Los Angeles from Spain, when was it?, three, yes, maybe four years ago… right around the time the masked outlaw started showing up and God, wasn't it so clear now?

Enough of a low profile not to bring attention to himself; right in the center of everything to be a part of it all. He'd always been living in her peripheral vision, never in the focus point but distinct enough for her to know of his existence.

Not a vaquero, like many people guessed, not a merchant or a rebellious soldier, like others thought. People fairly say the right answer is usually the simplest: don Diego de la Vega, from one of the richest, if not _the_ richest family in California.

"So. It's you…" she whispered, getting closer, assimilating it all: his dark eyebrows and each little hair of them, the profile of his nose against the faint light, his mustache and how it lined his lips, pursed in the middle of who knows what heat induced vision inside his head. He'd frown just a bit from time to time and his eyelids would quiver; maybe he was fencing in his sleep against that _Águila_ of his nightmares.

With clean cloths and some fresh water, Lucía started cleaning up his face, wiping off the blood gently and thoroughly.

"I don't know what to tell you right now. Now that I know you are Zorro, I mean. Do you mind if I call you don Diego, even in your costume… or what's left of it? What about just Diego? Do you mind…? I didn't think so."

Before this day, had she ever heard his voice. Maybe from the distance or as he spoke to other people, she couldn't remember.

"You're looking way better now. Even handsome. _Very_ handsome. I'd never really say this out loud, certainly not to your face, so don't mind me. Just don't tell anyone and I won't tell anyone that you are… who you are."

The head wound poultice needed a bandage, so she took care of that the best she could. In spite of the medicine and the decrease in the shivering, he was still burning up: cool compresses on the forehead should help.

So then she got some blankets and made herself a little comfy bed besides her patient. It was now up to him and his body to fight off that infection and that fever.

All there was to do for the next couple hours, until it was tea time again, was lie down and stare at him.

So she did.

(…)

Note: thanks for reading and reviewing this little story guys!


	4. Chapter 4: Left

Chapter 4

Left

The fever had receded after three days, but Diego wouldn't wake up.

Lucía undid the first button of his black Zorro shirt. She'd been postponing this and now regretted it; one thing her _abuela_ always said was indispensable when helping someone heal, was keeping them as clean as possible, but damn, she'd never done this herself, it was always the old _india_ who would roll up her sleeves and get on with it, while the granddaughter waited in a corner literally looking the other way.

Second, third button.

"Now this would be a really bad time for you to come around, so you better… not."

All buttons off. Time to cut here and there to get rid of that rag.

Should she look? She didn't want to. But she wanted to.

"You're being ridiculous. Be professional... all right."

Shirt off and away. Boy, did he look… good, despite the arm wound, which was starting to get somewhat better. With cloth, soap and fresh water, she cleaned the area around it, then down his arm, then the other arm, then his neck, chest and torso. The dread of him waking up all of a sudden and awkwardness being ensured, started to fade away and was replaced by a sort of calm, by a feeling of just being glad to aid not just somebody, but him. _Him_. But why was he special? She'd have done the exact same thing for anyone, wouldn't she? And he was Zorro, sure, that _is_ special. But there was something else too.

It felt cozy, it felt right.

"Don't mind me. I'm being silly."

The stubble in his jaw was already pretty visible. Then her eyes rested on his lips for a bit too long and…

It was best to get over and done with it quickly.

(…)

"Can you hear me? Diego? It's strange… now that you're here, I realize how lonely I've been in this house since my _abuela_ died. Do you ever talk to yourself? I do sometimes. You have a deaf mute servant, don't you? Maybe you talk to him even if he can't hear you, same way I'm talking to you right now. I wonder if he actually _is _a deaf mute or if that's his alibi, same way Diego… well, _you_ are el Zorro's alibi, all quiet instead of a swashbuckler, ha? Is that difficult, living a double life? You're playing this… real life game of chess. Do you like chess? I have a feeling you do. I don't, but I'm pretty good at checkers. Are you listening to me, Diego? Can you hear what I'm saying? Move your hand if you do… hm… My _abuela _used to say there's a place between life and death that only few people get the chance to visit and return to tell the tale. Are you in there? Will you tell me that tale when you come back? It's weird, you don't even know me and I feel like I know you by now. I mean, I did see you with a… less than conventional… arrangement of clothes on, but just because I had to. It's just… your face and your presence feel so familiar to me by now. Maybe I'm exaggerating or making things up. What I mean to say is… I'm glad I found you. My God, your father must be worried sick, why hadn't I thought of that? Do you think I should…? Well I don't know if he knows you're Zorro, what explanations will I give him? No, you better deal with that yourself, I'm just here keeping your remedy fresh, thank you very much, this one looks a bit dry already, we'll have to change it in a minute. (Let's change it now. Where's the…? Here.) Maybe you'd think it's funny, but for my _abuela_ (I know I name her a lot, I'm sorry but she was the only family I ever knew) for her, the spirits of nature and those of our ancestors where the ones working behind the properties of the plants; at the same time, she'd pray to the Virgin Mary and the saints for her recipe to work out. It's an interesting mix. (We have to throw this away. Hm, this is looking way better). But I think… well good thing the inquisition is not in style anymore. No, I do believe God exists. Do you? I just don't know if it's in the spirits or in the Church or where. Maybe she was right after all and we should hang on to both just in case. Or maybe God is in the connections we make with people. In this… little space in between… us. What would you tell me if you woke up all of a sudden? _Where am I, who are you, what happened, where's Tornado?_ Or maybe that other thing you've said, about my eyes. I never knew why until I was 15 or 16 years old. It's a predictable story, really, nothing too shocking: my mother was an _india_, a servant, and my father one of her masters and long story short, here I am. He was from Europe but I'm not sure where: Spain, France, Germany, I don't know. The eyes are the only thing I ever got from him, to be honest. Never met him, but it doesn't matter. (All right, that's a good amount.) Diego… I like your name: _Diego_. Can you hear me? Fight, please, it's what you do. Fight for yourself this time. Don't go away, don't follow the light or anything like that. Just follow… my voice. I'm here, Diego. Stay with me."

She held his hand in between hers. It was warm.

(…)

A banging on the door woke her up. It was the middle of the night, she couldn't just open up, who would it be, he… he was all right, he was breathing, more banging on the door and she crawled out of the improvised cot with a hundred birds swarming inside her head, every single one of them fearing a different thing.

"Who's there?" she asked through the closed door.

A male voice replied:

"Good evening. Are you the granddaughter of the healer?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"It _is_ you. My master's wife is very sick. They have tried everything, except for your grandmother's arts and-"

"Those arts were lost forever when she died."

"You know that is not true. My master will pay any price you ask. I was instructed not to go back to San Rita without you, so please, _señorita, _she's dying… please."

Lucía turned to Diego, then to the door, then to Diego again.

She'd rejected this kind of request before. She could do it again. Couldn't she?

"_Señorita_?"

But Zorro wouldn't. He wouldn't just pass on the chance to help, when he knew he was able to.

"Well I'm no Zorro and I don't really know if I'm able to..."

"Excuse me? Please speak louder and please, we need to leave now."

After Tornado led her to him, she wouldn't have walked away and done nothing. She couldn't do that now.

"On one condition."

"Anything."

"I have to be back in less than… sixteen hours."

"As you wish."

"All right. Give me a moment."

She changed the medicine in Diego's head and arm; the tea prescription was for three days only, so he didn't have to take it anymore. She tucked him in with another blanket, left a bowl with water and another one with bread beside him.

"If you wake up while I'm gone, you are the absolute worst." She brushed his hair with a hand: "That'd be better than not waking up at all, though."

As she walked to the door carrying two baskets full of healing stuff, she turned to see him one more time:

"I'll be back in no time."

The coachman wouldn't have been able to see anything past the door as Lucía emerged and closed it quickly behind her back. The carriage was right there, it was an elegant one. Luckily, _el_ Zorro's black horse was nowhere to be seen.

"Shall we?"

"Let's go."

(…)

Note: I hope the first part wasn't too awkward to read XD Or maybe my intention was actually making it awkward, teehee! Also, the "little space in between" line I took it literally from the movie "Before sunrise" which I love. And I read the Inquisition was actually ended a bit after the 1820's, but my stories are not very historically accurate so oh well. Thanks for reading and reviewing (*wink*)


	5. Chapter 5: Awake

Chapter 5

Awake

The husband and their three children hadn't left her side. She was coming around for the first time in weeks.

"I would like… some cake, please" was the first thing she groggily said, to everyone's laughter mixed with tears. Then, it was all hugs, hand holdings and promises of mountains of cakes once she'd completed her treatment.

"I cannot thank you enough" don Fernandez approached Lucía, who'd been witnessing it all from her spot at the corner chair.

There were many things she could have said: _I wasn't even sure it'd work and you'd be hating me now if it didn't, I don't want to say it was luck because how can we make someone's life depend on it?, _but anyway…

"You're welcome." Guess that would be enough for the time being. "Excuse me, _señor,_ I need to go back home now."

"But won't you stay longer? I'd like you to oversee her, to give her the medicine yourself, you said she'll need to take it for a while."

"Yes, but I need to go now." Some excuse. Any excuse: "I have a… wounded… goat at home that I'm taking care of."

Goat, fox, _zorro_, whatever.

She worried this could come off as rude from her, but in all honesty, she didn't care. But maybe they were all so happy about the lady feeling better, that no one questioned the oddness of having to go attend to a goat instead of a person. There was some resistance, a lot of begging her to stay.

However, she managed to wriggle out of it.

The possibility of finding him awake when she arrived, was real and tangible. She'd wanted to be there when it happened, to answer to his what's, how's, where's and when's, just as she had rehearsed, just as she had imagined in those conversations with him in which she'd make up his replies inside her head. Bumps on the road, she had to hold on to steady herself inside the coach, but soon enough, it was all smooth again, at least as smooth as it gets in this kind of trips. Anyway, he was most likely still asleep. She'd change his bandages and tell him all about the Fernandez's and how _doña_ Cristina sat up all of a sudden and asked for cake.

Lucía dozed off more than once, jolting every time she woke up, her last half asleep and first half awake thoughts being for Diego.

There was still a bit of blueish sunlight in the sky when the silhouette of the cabin appeared through the gap of the curtains.

She jumped out and thanked the coachman.

"Don't mention it. I'll wait for you right here."

"You'll _wait_?"

"I was told to take you back to Santa Rita once you finished tending some business here."

"I don't think that's going to happen, I have to-"

"I can wait as long as you need. Until tomorrow, even."

"Well, get comfortable."

He did, placing his hat over his eyes and leaning back, ready to take a nap.

Weren't those people persistent. But in order to make sure a loved one would be fine… or survive, even, who wouldn't be?

One more glance at the old man over her shoulder and it was safe to open the door and sneak in, her heart racing at the idea of seeing him again. Wasn't it silly? It was, but it was also exciting: what if she found him sitting at the table sipping tea, making himself at home?

Her lungs skipped a breath. As it turns out, the unexpected always finds pleasure in hitting us in the face: there was no one either at the mattress or in the room at all.

Both baskets of supplies fell to the ground, the worst case scenario immediately making its entrance to her imagination: what if someone had found out El Zorro was hiding in there? (How? That's not important for the machinations the brain conceives out of fear) What if he was taken to the authorities for the reward? Five thousand pesos, if she remembered correctly. Had she locked the door before leaving? She had, the lock wasn't broken.

Outside, the coachman saw her walk around the house once, twice, then go back inside.

He shrugged and went back to sleep.

So Tornado was nowhere to be seen, it didn't come when she whistled either, that means…

An object she hadn't noticed before caught her eye. She fell on her knees and took it like she'd discovered the missing secret of a long lost civilization. Instead, it was a piece of paper, the type she used to wrap the berries she sold at the market. Four words were written on it with charcoal. She had to read them several times:

"_Thank you, Green Eyes. _

_ D."_

More precisely, yes, four words _and_ one letter: _D_ for Diego, not _Z_ for Zorro. He knew she knew who he was, of course, and he'd decided to be Diego for her, not the masked elusive stranger everyone could see sneaking over the roofs, but no one really knew.

"Diego…" she pronounced, feeling silly at the same time and smiling all the way.

He was all right, that was for sure.

And _Green Eyes_. Like that, with capital letters. No one had ever called her that way or even made mention of that feature of hers. A _mestiza_ with those eyes that publicized her less than honorable family background, was a stigma, a taboo for the _indios_, the Spaniards and just about everyone. Not for him. Did he remember the face they were attached to? Her voice?

Lucía stared at the note for another long while and for the first time, forced herself to face the reality of what had occurred: her medicine worked, good; he survived, great; he was strong enough to get up, take his horse and go, even better; but her? She was… it's… he was out of her life now. Not that she'd wanted to keep him in there forever, she was more than glad that he had recovered. It's just that now he was gone. For good. They were two parallel lines that took an unexpected turn and met at one point, only to then keep stretching far and away. And she was, for Christ sake, she was… she missed him, alright. Did she have the right to? She didn't know him, not really. She liked him, fine, that, she could admit. But liking is not the same as being in love with. She wasn't.

The baskets' provisions were restocked with some extra stuff. She wasn't hungry, they'd given her more than enough food during the day. She then noticed the bowls in which she'd left him bread and water were empty. Maybe she should bring just an apple for the road. And the note, of course, safe in her dress's pocket. (Not like she was. Because she wasn't, she wasn't in love.)

"I'm ready" she startled the coachman.

"Good to hear" he replied, straightening up: "Shall we?"

It was dark already when they took off, back to Santa Rita.

(…)

Note: I'm sorry if the way I write this sometimes sounds too modern and not 1820s enough. I just try to write as I feel it, and this is how I felt it. Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6: Written

Chapter 6

Written

Four weeks at the Fernandez household went by faster than she'd expected. Most of the time she'd be by doña Cristina's side, who was gradually and steadily feeling better; on her little free time, she'd walk around the rancho or listen to one of the kids play the harp. But no matter what she was doing, there was something subjacent, right below the surface: the sound of his voice, the times she saw don Diego on the street or at the market, without _really_ seeing him. His dark hair, his hands, his body and his presence in her little house, that time el Zorro stormed into the crowded square on his black horse and saved some _vaquero_ from being hung, then disappeared just as he'd arrived, in a instant and leaving everyone in awe, including herself. His lips, how close they'd been, the note in her pocket at all times: _Green Eyes_.

She was in the middle of her fourth daydream that morning when the carriage pulled over: the cabin was already out there.

"I hope I don't have to see you again, Justiniano" she dropped the usual physician or healer good-bye.

"Likewise, _señorita_."

Her things at the doorstep, waving farewell to the coachman, that clearing where Tornado had been grazing while its owner… she had to smile sadly at the fact that everything seemed to take her back to him.

It was time to stop. There was no use for this thing she felt and certainly no purpose. Soon it'd just be a nice memory of an unexpected… visitor.

Her resolution lasted the time it took to open the door and find about half a dozen sheets of paper that had been slid right under. Each of them had a written note.

(…)

_Before_

First, there was only pain and darkness: one followed by the other, the former tangling up with the latter, the two of them suffocating his reasoning and senses.

That lasted ages. It almost felt like death itself.

_Was it_ death? Had it caught him at last, after outsmarting it so many times?

Nothing.

And then, something. A fog or a blur and in the center, two eyes of green… but he had to go, he had to warn the soldiers, he had to run and get his sword and get into the fight and dodge bullets and roll on the floor and disappear. Disappear in darkness again, until once again, the aching took the shape of a live flame in his brain. The world fell up and rose down, it couldn't be, he had to do something, he always did something, he was never at the mercy of fate, he had to be the one calling the shots. Not this time. The fire in his head wouldn't allow him to form a coherent idea besides those that revolved around pain, pangs of pain here and there, everywhere. He had to leave, he'd just get on Tornado, where was it? Bernardo would get it for him. And there were the green pupils one more time, where did they come from? He didn't think he'd go to heaven, so the only logical option was: from hell.

(…)

It was coming in and out of an obscure tomb after that. He remembered fragments of wordless thoughts that popped up and vanished just as quickly. Later, something that took form very slowly, like particles in a gust of wind that would regroup after the tempest: a voice coming from a million miles away, traversing the blackness and the boiling ache. He knew that they were meant for him, those words that made no sense but were a constant hum he hung on to. And after a while, he knew it: the voice belonged to the green eyes. He could see them sometimes, not very often, they were most likely a fantasy or a hallucination of his throbbing mind.

(…)

Something called his still numb attention. It had no shape, he couldn't tell if it was a vision or a sound, maybe a shift in the air.

There it was again, it was… an echo: a thud, a thump or a knock. Then the sweet voice and without notice, he finally emerged from the underwater nothing he had been submerged in, where everything was muffled and viscous, to the surface. He tried to focus on something, but there were mostly shadows; real shadows, at least, not the ones from his own nightmares. There was another voice somewhere, steps, so he looked in that direction. There was someone too and it clicked, at last, that she was the owner of the voice and the eyes.

His lips parted and remained motionless in the first letter of a word. Over there, half hidden by a door or a cupboard or a wall, despite the darkness, he discerned a bare back and long, wavy hair falling over it; clothes being removed, the contour of a waist and a hip, fabric fitting into place.

Fortunately, he anticipated her turning to glance at him a fraction of a second earlier, so he shut his eyes again right on time.

Not a bad way to wake up, after all.

He was way too aware of the world around now, taking in every little thing: the texture of the blanket, her steps that approached, her hands rummaging through his hair doing… what? Then in his arm…

There was some pain, but nothing compared to how it was before.

"If you wake up while I'm gone, you're the absolute worst… that'd be better than not waking up at all, though."

Indeed, it was her voice, but now he could make out what she was saying. And he realized… funny how things were acquiring their distinct outlines one at a time; he realized she was tending to his wounds…

His wounds!

The memories poured back inside his brain as if from a recently opened box, all at once: the gun powder, the fight, el _Águila_, that man they murdered-

"I'll be back in no time."

She stepped away. A door was locked. Silence took over.

Diego opened his eyes once more, everything spinning around when he sat up, hunger clutching his stomach, but that wasn't nearly as unexpected as finding himself with no shirt or mask on.

Of all of the realizations of this strange awakening, this one hit him the most: she'd seen his face. She knew who Zorro was.

(…)

Still recovering from his wounds or not, el Zorro had a lot of work to do if he wanted to make up for that unsolicited absence of leave.

He hadn't forgotten, though. As soon as he had a free afternoon, he headed to the little cabin that had been his infirmary. One side of the roof was close from collapsing, incredible it hadn't yet.

After knocking for a while, it was pretty clear no one would answer.

Same story the next day, but this time, he left something behind:

"_Los Angeles, August 15__th__, 1823. _

_Dear Señorita Lucía: _

_Please accept my sincere greetings. As you see, I have been fortunate enough to learn your name. Nevertheless, I have not had the same luck in finding you home. I will continue trying, if you do not mind, as the last thing I wish is my gratefulness to be solely in the form of ink blots on paper. _

_Until we meet again, then, hopefully. _

_Yours respectfully, _

_D._"

(…)

"_Los Angeles, August 18__th__, 1823. _

_Dear Señorita Lucía: _

_I must say you are a very talented lady, as I am living proof of: everything that was broken feels more restored with each day. I hope I can have the honor of telling you this in person. _

_Yours respectfully, _

_D._"

(…)

"_Los Angeles, August 23rd, 1823. _

_Dear Señorita Lucía: _

_At the risk of seeming repetitive, I would like to let you know I visited the door of your home once again this morning._

_It is definitely a risk I am willing to take. _

_Yours respectfully, _

_D._"

(…)

"_Los Angeles, August 25th, 1823. _

_Dear Señorita Lucía: _

_Did you know the tree in front of your house grows the best oranges in the world? Of course you do. I keep taking from your generosity. Will you let me thank you? _

_Yours respectfully, _

_D._"

(…)

"_Los Angeles, August 29th, 1823. _

_Dear Señorita Lucía: _

_Those days I abused your hospitality are mostly blank in my memory. Last night, however, I remembered something: you, telling me to fight, to stay with you, to follow your voice. _

_I have been following it for a while now. Will I get to hear it again?_

_Yours respectfully, _

_D._"

(…)

"_Los Angeles, September 4__th__, 1823. _

_Dear Señorita Lucía: _

_It is a fine day today and I am capable of seeing it because of you. I know some debts can never be repaid in full. That is my case. I am here nonetheless, unsuccessfully attempting to._

_Yours respectfully, _

_D._"

(…)

Note: I gotta admit it's always more difficult for me to write from the point of view of men; let alone, Diego's. It's probably one of the first times I do it, I hope it kinda works. I did enjoy writing the little letters! Let's see what happens next, I have the main idea on how this story will continue, but there's this other idea yanking at me from another side, so maybe I could use that as well. We'll see. Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7: Spellbound

Chapter 7

Spellbound

His handwriting was angular, tilted to the right, particularly the upper parts of the t's and b's, and the lower sticks of the p's and y's. The capital L, used to spell her name, had a little curve on the top and then swung sideways in pointy waves. Each one of the notes was in ink, so he must have necessarily written them at home, then brought them here to the cabin.

So he _was_ thinking about her… even if just out of gratitude.

Lucía picked the one from August 29th and read it for what was probably the forty seventh time. Right on the spot where she was lying, with the sheets of paper spread around as if displayed to admire (or _in fact_ displayed to admire), he'd been lying as well. She congratulated herself for not saying anything too embarrassing that he could have been able to remember, then read it once more: _…your voice._ _I have been following it for a while now. Will I get to hear it again?_

Not only did her _abuela _heal the body; she was also known for healing the soul or more specifically, for healing broken hearts. A lot of costumers passed by this house, even a few elegant people, willing to pay the fee that would grant them the magic cure for love, the remedy that would allow them to rip that someone off their chests and forget about them for good.

Lucía had liked this one boy once, but nothing too serious, not enough to take a dip in the mixture of honey, basil and mud from the borders of the creek her grandma prescribed for the toughest of cases.

She might need it this time.

The thought of it made her giggle and go for another one of the notes, this time the one from August 23rd: …_I visited the door of your home.._. She liked that little hint of humor sprinkled at some points. His words felt sincere too, like he really meant it, with no disguises or cloaks. Guess he could do that, considering what she knew. Of course he was too smart to think she could rat him out: if that would have ever been her intention, she wouldn't have given him a bath with her own two hands to begin with.

What _was_ her intention? Say it again: _just to help someone_. One more time: _would have done it for anyone _(not sure about the bathing part).

It all swirled inside her head a little, it all felt way too good. It was best not to think too much about the future, it being the morning light that would appear at any moment. She let the paper rest on her chest and stretched out her arms.

Where was that basil?

(…)

Lucía glanced over her shoulder one more time: two men made their way down the street in their horses, there was also the same old lady carrying a big basket she'd crossed just seconds ago.

An elegant coach that turned around the following corner, heading her way, almost made her jump in her spot. But it wasn't him, so she gathered her courage and kept on, guided by the noise of what seemed to be a crowd in the main square of the town.

"…of his Majesty the King of Spain, from now on the tax will be of eighteen per cent…" Whatever the _Capitan_ said after that got lost in the massive booing that erupted amongst the audience.

It looked like she'd arrived when things were reaching their boiling point, for the angry calls turned into shoving and then into objects of diverse kind flying the lancers' way, who did their best to protect the _Comandante_ as he pinned the poster with the new decree where everyone could see it.

The soldiers struggled to repel the multitude and right when things seemed to be about to get out of any sort of control, someone's voice rose above the tumult:

"El Zorro!"

Lucía's heart dropped to the ground and bounced several times like a marble.

It was him, obvious as it is to say it, but it was, it was him and she had to acknowledge it like that, to make sure the madness she was witnessing was real: Zorro, don Diego, him!, leaping from a balcony and crashing the _Comandante_'s party, snatching the poster from the wall, to the public's cheering and hoorays. The clatter of the foils began and Lucía, seeing it all from a corner, marveled at the sight of him doing what he did and also wondering if his arm still hurt. It most likely did, even if a little; nevertheless, he was right there, wielding that blade as if nothing.

What happened afterwards would be added to the list of El Zorro's greatest feats, _grand escapades_ subsection, one of those that people would talk about for months to come.

He somehow climbed a wall, grabbed a rope and swung himself above the rooting crowd. At the same time, Lucía's breath abandoned her entirely: he was heading in heeer direction, landing right there and was ready to go his way when, behind the mask, his eyes bumped into her wide open ones.

_Green Eyes._

This part wouldn't be included in the book of heroic deeds, because no one else knew, no one realized, only the two of them shared this instant of recognition, face to face and eye to eye, not able to say anything.

But a smile would do.

The lancers wouldn't stop and wait for them to catch up on old times, though, so, to the top of the wall, over the roofs, few bullets that failed to reach him and he was gone.

Her heart had sneaked its way back into her chest at some point. It was pounding so hard, guess it wanted to break out again.

(…)

Chamomile is disgusting, but it's supposed to help you calm down. She took the first sip that tasted like rancid spinach soup and placed the cup back on the table. A couple of deep breaths and then she decided not to keep attempting to fool herself, so she stood up and continued pacing around the house, changing that one bowl from this cabinet to the other for no particular reason, maybe that cushion would look better over there, and why not rearrange roots and leaves shelf?

It was unreal to think she knew who the man behind the mask was. That he'd looked at her that way, with that spark that suddenly lit up in his stare when meeting hers.

They were each other's secret, implicitly. And she loved that secret… she liked it. She loved it. She-

She didn't move.

She'd been expecting this: a knock on the door. Maybe she did know him after all, or maybe it was just a logical deduction. The former sounded better.

And the air was immobile as well.

Another knock, then she heard it:

"Lucía?"

The visitor was back and she was home this time.

(…)

Note: I can say this fic has taken a life of its own. It's turned out way longer than I anticipated and I have added a bunch of things along the way. As usual, thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8: Uncovered

Chapter 8

Uncovered

She'd jumped off the cliff, there was no turning back.

And her leap was in the shape of a note she'd left under the door for him to find.

It went like this:

"_Dear Don D.:_

_ Please forgive my lack of answer, I was out of town. I am glad I could be of service and it pleases me more to know you are feeling well. There were times when I even feared for your life and tell me, what would I have done with a dead outlaw in my living room? _

_ You say you want to thank me in person. Maybe the opportunity will arise. _

_ See you soon, _

_ Lucía."_

As she pictured him reading the note, she almost had a physical sensation in her hand: something like a weigh or an itch to open the door, look at him in the face and let the chips fall where they may. It was a _what if_ thought, shuffled around inside of her by forces unknown.

However, looks like it's easier to follow a horse into the depths of the wilderness, pick up a stranger who is also a bandit, bring him home and feed him stinky roots, than twisting a knob.

Her own heartbeat seemed too loud.

And he had such a strong presence; even without making a noise, with a scraped off wall between the two of them, she could feel as if he were staring at her, like any movement or too deep of a breath would give her away, if it hadn't yet.

Then, there was finally something: the crinkling of paper, a raspy sound against the door. That's how she'd imagined he'd write: swiftly, as if his writing was trying to catch up with the promptness of his thoughts.

Soon enough, a note was popping up from under the door.

She didn't budge a muscle.

The paper was mostly on this side, but for sure there was a little bit peeking out.

He was still outside.

She was dying to read it.

And for twenty minutes or so, no one moved.

Hard to say which one was more stubborn.

Lucía gasped in mute when the note disappeared. More writing on the door. Then then it appeared again.

His steps going somewhere. The trotting of a horse fading away.

An eternity later, she finally sneaked a look through the curtain: no one around, apparently.

The type of paper was the same. His angular handwriting (even the _o_ was angular, how is that possible?) had been drawn in charcoal.

"_Your doorstep, September 8__th__, 1823. _

_ Dear Señorita Lucía:_

_ The funniest thing happened this morning at the square: I believe I saw the lovely face that accompanies the sweet voice and the green eyes that kept yours truly from being a corpse in someone's living room. Do you happen to know when or where I could greet them properly? There is nothing I would like more. _

_ See you soon, _

_ D._

_P.S.: Very well then. But I will come back."_

What was the agenda now, the next logical step? She had none in store. All she had was his charm in each sentence; the way he changed the closing line from _respectfully yours_ to _see you soon_, after the closing in her own note; his knocks on the door still echoing around; the reminiscence of his voice pronouncing her name.

_Lovely face… sweet voice… _

_See you soon._

(…)

The market was a thing to prickle the senses: bright colors in the yellow of the lemons, the red of the apples and variations of purple, orange and green in everything else. The voices announced, chanted or greeted, the coins jiggled when changing from hand to hand and a horse or donkey whined somewhere around. But the smells were definitely the best part because they brought along memories out of the blue, without notice or trying: mint, like the tea her _abuela_ used to make for her when she was a kid and it was chilly outside; squash, like Christmas dinner with those neighbors that had moved out of town years ago (did he come to the market often? She remembered seeing him there maybe a couple of times, had she been blind the other times? Or the opposite: way too aware of her place and his, worlds apart, to even consider his existence?); turmeric and other spices at the adjacent stand, that's how her own home had smelled for about a week, as she nursed her very own Zorro back to health.

No one saw her giggle at this, or so she thought.

The scent of berries was present as well: it was sweet and flowery, deep and colorful in a way. She counted eleven coins in her skirt's pocket (after fifteen, it could be considered a good day) while surveilling the baskets with her peripheral vision, not everyone was actually willing to pay for the fruits, vegetables and other merchandise, shoplifters would come out of nowhere and you wouldn't even notice, but of course gooseberries are an excellent aid for the digestion, would you like a bundle or two? (And would Don D. show up at her door that afternoon as well?), this batch that you see is delicious, try one if you please (_lovely face, sweet voice, green eyes_… the thought caressed her brain), and then the half deaf lady, she was always a trip:

"One for a peso. Three for two pesos."

"Two for a peso?"

"No, it's one. For a peso. One, one. _Uno, uno_."

"Ah! I see. And four for two pesos?"

"No, three for… for… three… eh…"

"Three for three pesos! That's too expensive, child."

How long had he been there? Better yet: how long had he been looking at her? A river of swarming people between the two and he was now so evident, so in the center of everything, his face now free from any fever, mask or door, yet as familiar as ever (if _ever _can consist on few weeks, and for her, it sure did.)

The lady left grumbling about the inflation, there was no time to react or think as he began to approach, more like he leapt in, owning each step, making his way among the people.

A boiling burst of nervousness made her look down. It also brought along an absurd thought or two, such as _maybe I should offer him some berries_ or _maybe I should just pretend nothing ever happened, ever. _

Or maybe just be glad to be here. Be glad to be living this, whatever it is and wherever it goes.

"Good afternoon, _señorita_."

Ah! His voice.

"Good afternoon, _señor_."

And she looked up.

The market vanished, the people, the whole town too. It was only them and their eyes, reaching out.

"I was told you have the gift of healing, so I wondered: would you happen to have anything that could perhaps be beneficial for a concussion and an arm wound? Asking for a friend. "

Lucía smiled widely, laughed, smiled some more.

Just be glad. And let it go.

"I might."

"You might?"

"I just might."

END.

Note: this story got out of hand a bit. At first, the idea was only about him being hurt and her helping him out, but it escalated to all of this.

Also, if you've seen the movie "Amelie" which is one of my all-time favorites, you probably noticed that I got inspiration from it for this chapter. I gotta say that at the start of this story, I planned to write the girl as being more outgoing and sassy, but I feel that I always end up projecting myself into my female characters, and this kind of awkward stuff is definitely something I'd do XD

Another thing: not sure if the ending feels kinda rushed or sudden; but I swear that from the start, this is how I planned to end it: with them actually meeting for the first time, so to speak. Now, what will happen next? Who knows! But this was the story of a visitor.

Also, if you enjoyed this, please consider reading my other story: "Immortal" (in English) or "Inmortal" (in Spanish). I think it's better than this one :-S

Thanks for reading! And I'd love to read your opinion!


End file.
